


Another World, Another Life

by silentstephi



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:17:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentstephi/pseuds/silentstephi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirkwall needs to rebuild, and the Champion would not abandon her home.  Working with the new Knight Commander, Sorcha Hawke has some radical ideas of her own on how to fix the 'mage problem.'  It makes Cullen's job that much harder.</p><p>NB:  This started out a fill for a kinkmeme prompt, but has the potential to be more.  For now, here's the fill.  Consider this me de-anoning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spar

The sound of steel on steel rang loud in Cullen’s ears. With a twist of his wrist, he turned the massive blade aside with his shield and let it scrape along the edge. Using the flat of his blade he slapped the Champion’s thigh, not hard enough to cause pain, just gain her attention. The chanting behind her preceded the icy blast aimed for her back. Sweat rolled down his brow but he ignored it, watching Hawke’s eyes widen when she realized the distraction. 

She ducked low and grounded herself like he had shown her, and allowed the blast sail over both combatants. Then she swung a warding arm out at the mage as he prepared to cast again. She watched his spell fizzle and then launched herself at him. He couldn’t duck out of the warrior’s grasp fast enough. 

Hawke thumped his shoulder and called out, “Disabled!” She grinned at him, the supposed “blood mage” she convinced to return to the Circle almost a year ago. “Close one though, Emile.” He returned her grin with a shy smile and muttered something under his breath before shuffling off the practice ground.

Sorcha Hawke, Viscountess and Champion of Kirkwall, tossed the long thick red braid of her hair over her shoulder and Cullen’s toes curled. Sweat and dirt marred her strong jaw and the tattoo covering the side of her face, but it didn’t hide the smirk at the corner of her mouth. She crossed her arms and said, “Try thumping my head next time, Serah. Love taps don’t get much attention.”

Don’t I know it, he thought as he relaxed his stance and nodded at her. “Noted.” 

They had been sparring like this for six months, and over time he had shown her the basics to Templar training. Her tenacity was almost Templar in its persistence and she soaked up everything he taught her. Her prowess on the battle field was no exaggeration. What took most recruits years to master she breezed through in a few sessions. 

She walked to the edge of the practice yard to the water jug and lifted it to her mouth to drink. They had forgone armor in the baking heat typical of a Kirkwall summer. Her light grey tunic and leather trousers were covered in sweat and dirt. Stretched and drinking, Cullen could see the tight bindings most fighting women had underneath her shirt. 

He had to admit lately he was finding more excuses to get her into the ring just to be in her presence. The woman was fascinating. Her sympathies for mages bordered on the outrageous, with her plans to move the Circle out of the Gallows and to the Chantry site, but she was determined to forge a new path. 

Her gasp as she finished the drink broke his train of thought. He glanced away lest she catch him leering at her. “Much better,” she said with a satisfied grunt. “The sun is determined to bake us into the cobbles today. Now,” and she placed the jug down and strode back into the sparring ring, swinging her two handed practice sword in lazy circles. “I think that’s enough warm up. Care to take another shot at me?”

There was challenge in her stare and his stomach flipped. He had yet to best her in this game. She was a superb fighter; strong, fast, and she had the Maker’s luck. But he had been practicing. Feeling confident he nodded to her, brought his sword to his brow and bowed. They fanned out , circling one another around the ring.

One moment he paced to the side, the next he charged her. It was a change from their usual start, she usually the one to initiate or test his mettle. The surprise he saw on her face felt worth the risky maneuver, but as quick as the shock was there it was gone, morphing into anticipation as she dodged his first thrust. Still, his sword arm tugged to the side a bit and he heard the sound of torn fabric as he sliced a length down the side of her shirt. 

She spun in place to keep him in front of her and taunted him, “Oooh he’s got teeth today!” Her teeth flashed in a feral grin and then she darted forward, swung both arms at his back as she brought her larger sword down in an arc. He countered the blow with his shield, but too late he realized there was no weight to her strike. Her boot whipped out and cracked him in the chin, and pain and the taste of copper blossomed in his mouth as he bit his lip. Instead of keeping steady footing he let the momentum of the kick carry through and fell back. He dropped his shield and swept his leg out to knock her off her feet.

Cullen watched her hop up but he felt contact with her ankle and she tumbled backwards. Not one to waste the opportunity, he pounced on her. But the move was expected and he had misjudged his momentum. Her strong hands grabbed his tunic, rolled him, and tossed him clear across the ring. 

He landed hard on his back and all the air in his lungs vacated with a whoosh, though somehow he managed to keep a grip on his sword. Behind him he heard the scramble of feet and felt the solid thump of charging boots through his chest. Instinct brought his sword up in time to block her downward strike and the clang of metal rang in his ears. Over the crossed blades he saw her wild eyed grin as she pushed downward. Powerful for a woman, she also had the advantage of leverage and gravity. The swords inched closer to his face.

The gravel of the practice ring stabbed through his linen shirt into his back and he knew he had to change tactics. There was a hiss of steel on steel as he rolled to the side. But instead of rolling away, like she expected, he reversed course and slammed his shoulder into her hips, tackling her to the ground.

His world spun as they rolled in the dirt, swords forgotten as each warrior tried to gain the upper hand. Then she cracked his forehead with hers and his vision swam. His back slid on the gravel, tearing at his shirt and the roll ceased with Sorcha’s thighs straddling his chest and a dagger she produced from who-knew-where at his throat.

Their breaths came in gasps and she was a warm weight on top of him. With thin clothes instead of plate armor between them the feel of her, taunt muscles and heavy breathing, made heat lance through his groin. This close her scent was overpowering: cinnamon and sweat. Green eyes bright with the exertion, stray hairs had escaped her braid and plastered themselves to the sides of her face. Her cheeks were flushed and her breaths, in time with his, came in shallow huffs. Compared to the acute sensory overload, the pinch of her dagger at his throat was a distant afterthought.

The adrenaline high started to flag, and as they caught their breath he saw realization dawn on her face, of the position they were in. Her pink tongue darted out to lick dry lips which caused his nethers to tighten. With a low husky tone she said, “Do you yield, serah?”

He looked up at her, and a myriad of lewd thoughts flashed through his mind. Highly improper for a Templar of his station, really. But her thighs trembled against his sides and clear thought was beyond him. Instead, he smiled at her, a rare enough occurrence that gave her pause, and tapped his dagger against the inside of her thigh. An echo of the aforementioned ‘love tap’. She glanced down and her eyes widened in surprise. He was beginning to like that look on her face. There on her inner thigh rested his dagger, pointed up towards her bared navel. During the scuffle her shirt had loosened from her trousers to expose her well-muscled midriff.  
For one wild moment, she glanced back into his eyes and he thought she might push the issue. See who had the quicker draw. Her green eyes dared him, her body taunt as a bowstring, the dagger steady at his throat.  
Then the tension left her thighs and a deep throaty laugh bubbled up which made her rumble against him, and it about undid him. Before he could embarrass himself though, she got her feet under her and stood up, then offered him a hand up. He took a moment to calm himself and then he grasped her offered hand, still wrestling with thoughts of gratitude and disappointment. It made him light headed.

With one strong tug she got him to his feet and her laughter abated. “Well done! You’re finally learning how to fight dirty.” Her eyes twinkled with mirth, and he could only swallow to wet his dry tongue and return her grin in silence.

Something passed behind her eyes, a thought he could only guess at but by now he knew he was staring at her and looked away. He cleared his throat and pointed at their abandoned swords, “Maybe so, but it’s a tactic I don’t think would work rather well against a group.”

She snorted and crossed her arms. Her shirt rode up higher because of the gesture, exposing more of her skin and the sweat that beaded on his brow was from more than exhaustion. “True. Let’s hope you don’t need to test it in the future. Needs some refinement.” Then she dropped one hand and reached out towards his face, concern in her tone. “Bugger, I bloodied you good there.”

His heart hammered in his chest at her touch but before he could duck away or come back with a witty retort a call echoed across the practice yard, “Your Grace!” A young page dashed through the courtyard, stopped at the edge of the ring and bowed to them both. The girl was winded and drenched in sweat. She looked as if she had swum her way to the Gallows from Hightown. 

“Prescilla, what is it?” He watched the Champion’s demeanor shift as her arm dropped to her side. Her page was the daughter of Kert Arvelle, one of the highest ranking nobles in Kirkwall and head of overseas trade. If the rumors Cullen had heard were true, the bratty young squire and her headstrong mentor clashed in personality.

Prescilla straightened up and presented Sorcha with a scroll, “Your Grace, a message from Ansburg. Seneschal Bran felt you needed to see it immediately.”

Sorcha took the scroll and glanced at the seal. Cullen noted it was not the Margrave’s seal, but instead the royal stamp of Starkhaven. Her brows furrowed as she read the missive. Sunlight gleamed off the droplets of sweat sliding down her cheeks and he resisted the urge to brush them away. Instead he gathered up their discarded weapons to give Sorcha some privacy.

A soft grunt and the sound of crumpled parchment was all he heard before he felt Sorcha's pat on his shoulder. “Duty calls, Knight Commander. Good match. But don’t get used to winning. It’ll ruin my reputation.” She winked at him and instructed Prescilla to follow her back to the Hold in Hightown. 

It wasn’t until the last gleam of red had disappeared from the sparring ring that he realized he still clutched her sword to his side. He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more: that she was unarmed and unarmored on her way through the city, or that now he had an excuse to see her again.


	2. Vicountess

The full moon sat high up in the night sky, casting a long shadow behind him as Cullen stormed his way up the stairs to the Viscount’s Hold. After speaking with the Revered Mother, he could not wait until the morning to protest the Viscountess’ plans. 

The guardsmen waved him inside. He recognized both of them, but the Knight Commander was in no mood to catch up. In the past few months Guard Captain Aveline, with the city guard, and he, with the Templars, had worked together to keep peace in the city. It wasn’t a perfect partnership, and there were still some old grudges that surfaced, but a semblance of order had returned to Kirkwall. Both he and the Captain could appreciate that.

As he mounted the stairs the clank of his armor echoed off the walls of the deserted keep. He had first gone to the Hawke Estate, but the elven maid, Orana, had directed him to the Keep. Sorcha had kept to herself for the past few weeks and it worried him. The fact that it worried him should have been a warning. It wasn’t as though working with her was easy, but no matter how frustrating her views they always reached a compromise.

His fist clenched at the thought of just how many compromises he had made. So far Sorcha had been willing, eager even, to work with the Templars and her popularity with the nobles grew because of it. The Templars, although still a power in the city, did not enjoy the same sway they used to have with the council. Sorcha would still have difficulties doing anything openly opposing the Order, but she had yet to do so. 

The guards outside the office nodded to Cullen but before he stepped inside Seneschal Bran burst through the door. Bran glared at Cullen, then recognition dawned on the bureaucrat and his scowl became a grimace. He gave the Knight Commander a slight nod and stormed off into the keep without a word. Both guardsmen watched the retreating Seneschal, then looked back at the Knight Commander and shrugged. It was a common sight to those who guarded the Viscountess. 

His armor creaked in protest as Cullen squared his shoulders. If the Seneschal’s mood was any indication of Hawke’s present mood, this conversation could come to blows. It had once before, he had the scar to prove it. He braced himself, opened the door, and froze.

The woman who stood behind the desk and gazed out the window couldn’t be the Viscountess. Smooth cream colored skin covered a well-muscled back, the shimmering spider web of scarring a testament to a rough life. Long red hair was bound in a cascade of braids and curls, and she wore a silken maroon gown that clasped behind her neck but left her bare all the way down to the small of her back. The tension in her shapely arms snapped him out of his gawking and he cleared his throat. She whirled to face the door at the sound, her arm twitching in reflex. 

For a moment, her wary green eyes stared into his stunned hazel before wariness turned to recognition. “Maker’s breath, it’s just you,” she said. His cheeks flushed and he turned his gaze from hers to stare at her shoulder instead. From his peripheral vision he caught sight of the front of the gown as it dipped low between her breasts. Its loose folds outlined her athletic physique. The splash of skin from her thigh told him there was a split in the skirt that went from the floor to her hip, and his mouth went dry. He watched her arm relax to her side and was thankful to not have to dodge a dagger to the face.  
Her state of dress and the gesture were enough to distract him from his original argument and he closed the door behind him. “Your Grace.” He bowed low, hand to chest in a salute. “Were you expecting company?” 

She sighed and his chest tightened when he saw her bosom swell against the fabric. Sorcha Hawke in armor was a force to be reckoned with. Outside of armor, it reminded him that she was a woman. A very capable, deadly, stunning woman. His gaze lingered on her chest for a moment before sanity returned and he looked elsewhere. She, unaware of his transgression, pinched the bridge of her nose and said, “What do you think the council would say if Seneschal Bran just happened to fall repeatedly onto his letter opener in the next 24 hours?” She dropped her hand and growled. “I swear to the bloody Maker that insufferable man is harboring a demon. Are there less messy alternatives to prying one out or can I please just stab him?” 

Her eyes pleaded with him for respite and as he closed the distance from the door to the front of her desk Cullen noticed the air smelled faintly of fruit. Her brow raised and he groped for something to say, heat rising up his neck. “Beg your pardon, my lady, but no, we do not have an easy way to tell. Though I will make a note of your suspicions,” he said and his eyes narrowed.

She laughed and he couldn’t help the small smirk that touched his lips. The Seneschal was a competent man, but his job made him overbearing. Hawke had knack of ferreting out blood mages and abominations in the city and their numbers had dwindled since they had started to work together, but Cullen doubted Seneschal Bran was one of them. 

Some of the tension in her shoulders eased and he watched her lean back against the window as she crossed her arms. “That man will be the death of me. Lord Harold Kane’s sixty-seventh birthing day was tonight, talk of the bloody town and Bran determined I make an appearance.” She dismissed the event with a wave of her hand. “I have important bloody things to do here, but no. His High and Mightiness practically marched me threw the sodding door.” She looked over at him and noticed his staring. “What?”

At a loss for words he managed a soft, “If you don’t mind me saying, my lady, you look stunning.”

She scoffed at him but color started to crawl up her neck line. “Stunned is more like it. Can’t bloody move in this get up. He’s so damned worried about another assassination attempt-“

Cullen’s eyebrows shot up at that. “A what?”

“-and then he goes and puts me in a silk sock for the night, leaving my sword at home.” Her brow furrowed in disgust as he mulled over the ‘silk sock’ she complained about. Personally he thought the gown suited her. It showed the softer side of a woman who commanded the attention and respect of her peers. She looked every inch the noble woman she was born to be as opposed to the mercenary she portrayed, one who was uncomfortable without her favorite sword. She had returned moments after leaving the sparring ring weeks before for it.  
He cleared his throat and pointed to the door, “You have a guard contingent following you everywhere. How was there an attempt on your life that I wasn’t informed of?” He caught the concerned tone in his voice and silently cursed but she only snorted at him.

“I had warning, so it wasn’t much of an attempt. Seneschal Bran is seeing ghosts. Don’t worry about it. Now.” She moved from the window and approached him. Her tone lightened as she said, “Why have you come to see me this late? Blood mages in the streets?” The unease in her eyes offset the jest, but he shook his head. The fact that she had brought him back to the reason he was here made him mentally kick himself.

“No.” Now that it was his turn to speak, his thoughts scattered. 

She raised a brow and prompted him. “Riots in the streets? Someone stubbed a toe? It’s your naming day and I forgot?” She smirked, but he set his lips in a grim line as the color faded from his cheeks and shook his head. She crossed her arms in response which ruffled the front of her dress, biceps tensed again. “Out with it then.” She didn’t look away from his face, and her stance told him that she was ready for whatever problem he threw at her. He wasn’t about to disappoint. 

“I think you are making a grave mistake with the revised plans to the new Chantry.” There. See, he could be diplomatic. Mother Eleline would make an argument to the contrary, but she wasn’t here.

She didn’t laugh outright but humor colored her tone. “Of course you would think that, but consider the change of view! No more stuffy old dungeon. Nice place in Hightown. Couldn’t be better, wouldn’t you say, Knight Commander?” 

That she would take it so lightly set his teeth on edge. “Nothing good can come from this move. The construction of a new Chantry is a great step forward, but I disagree with your proposal to place the Circle within the Chantry complex. There’s too much that can go wrong.” Standing this close to her, he realized the fruity aroma centered on Sorcha. It derailed him momentarily, so he paced away from her and forged on. ”An apprentice misfiring a spell could knock out half of Hightown. Keeping the mages in the Gallows promises safety for them and for everyone else.” 

She sighed and shook her head in response. “It does no one any good to keep mages separate from the common man. I understand that a thousand years of doctrine tells you otherwise but,” and she raised a hand to cut off the start of his protest. He watched her from the corner of his vision as she continued. “You know it’s not doing them or us any good, Cullen. Keeping mages apart from society only breeds mistrust and hate. Right here in Kirkwall, we have a chance to fix the wrongs done on both sides.” Then she pointed an accusing finger at him. “You said it yourself, Commander, that being exposed to more of Andraste’s teachings would breed better understanding with mages. Well then, let the Maker’s house be one with the Circle and they can breed little babies of understanding.”

There was warmth on his arm and he hadn’t noticed her walk up beside him. It stopped him cold, that she could be so silent, and he turned to look at her as she continued. “I thought you of all people would realize this need. I know it’s not a popular stance, Serah. People fear change. But like it or not, we all have to live in this city, together. The hate has to stop.” There was a fire in her gaze that matched the conviction to his calling to do the Maker’s will. The tension in the air between them grew.

He cleared his throat but refused to break eye contact. The grip of her fingers on his arm warmed the chain of his armor. “It does not sit well with me,” and he hesitated but forced the words out, “but the Revered Mother has overridden my protests. You have her blessing to proceed.”  
She squeezed his arm gently. In the pit of his stomach he still held reservations to this plan but as he stood there and looked into her eyes, further protests died on his lips. She smiled up at him then and said, “Trust me, this will work.” 

Defeated before he had the chance to bring his full fury to bear he nodded, unable to trust his voice. She brushed past him and it sent little jolts over his arm. It didn’t matter that he wore half an inch of steal plating and chain; the woman had a force surrounding her that seemed to project towards him. 

He heard leather rub against metal behind him and turned to see as she tried to toss her sword and scabbard over her shoulder. It caught on the fabric of her dress and she hissed. “Sod it all. Alright, you know what, I don’t care. Isabela can be sore at me later for ruining the gift. I am not going home without my sword.”

He took two quick steps and put his hand out towards her sword, “Please, my lady, allow me. That is too fine a dress for you to tear up. I can carry your weapon for you.” She frowned at him, and he swallowed as he realized he was being quite forward. Carrying another’s sword had other conotations to it, which made his ears redden at the thought. She seemed unaware of his discomfort though. Instead she sighed and relented, handing over her sword. Then her lips quirked. “Planning on walking me home then, are you?” 

“It would be appropriate in light of the recent assassination attempts my lady.”

For a second worry flitted across her gaze, then she nodded. “Good. I need to get home and get out of this flimsy mess.” Her face flushed again. She looked uncomfortable in the formal wear.

He placed the belt of her sword over his shoulder and jostled it into position. His time as Knight Captain taught him mastery of the sword and shield, but the weight of a claymore like hers was an old, familiar feel. He gestured with his hand that she should precede him through the door and said, “After you, my lady.”

She made a rude sound and stomped ahead. It wasn’t much of a stomp, but it made her hips sway in a hypnotizing fashion…

Maker have mercy, if he didn’t get a hold of himself, she would drive him mad.

With him in tow Sorcha waved off her guardsmen as they left the Hold and headed for Hawke’s estate in Hightown. When Guardsman Mitchell protested, she said, “If Aveline gives you a hard time, tell her I ordered you to get me a sandwich. With extra pickles. From the Chantry. Really, I’ll be fine. No one’s going to jump the Knight Commander and myself in the one hundred yards it is from here to the estate.”

Cullen watched the exchange with concern but stood silent. She had her arms crossed and hips canted to the side, ready for a fight. Wisely the guardsmen gave up and returned to the barracks. Cullen frowned as he followed her outside. It was as though she were daring the assassins to take a shot at her. In his opinion, she made it far too easy.

Outdoors the cool night air helped clear his head. A gentle sea breeze brushed through Hightown and took with it whatever perfume that clung to Hawke. He spared a glance at her while they walked down the Hold steps. “I understand that the crime rate in Hightown has declined, but the Guard have yet to stamp it out completely.”  
He caught a feral glint in her gaze as she looked up at him. It was all the answer he needed to the unspoken question. “There are always fools, Serah. Afraid we might come across some?”

He shook his head, “No just cautious, my lady. You could do well to be a bit yourself.” Her bare shoulder lifted in a shrug as she kept walking, her soft steps confident. 

They spent the rest of the walk in companionable silence. For months now, they’d worked together to get the city back into order. Once their sparing matches had picked up, the rough around the edges warrior woman had opened up a little, and he learned more of the Champion’s past in Fereldan. She had been intrigued to hear about his time in Fereldan’s Circle, and after some prodding he had told her of his time there. He told her of his encounter with the Hero of Fereldan and stories of the Circle before Uldred’s revolt. He did not mention how he came to Kirkwall, only that he had been reassigned. It was not something he wished to talk about, even with her. It was a dark time in his past.

Moments like this, where they shared the silence, were islands of calm in the storm of their lives. All too soon they reached her front door and he removed her sword from his back. Sorcha turned and held her hand in front of him, dark eyes looking into his as if she wanted to say something. Before any words emerged from her lips she was pressed against him and he stood frozen at the pressure of her body on his. He started to stutter out an apology, thinking he had tripped her but then he saw her grab for the handle of her sword. 

The weight of her was there one moment and gone the next. She pushed off him and whirled, sword in front of her in a defensive position. It put him on alert, and there was a hiss of steel as he drew his own sword. 

“I saw you!” she said into the night. “Come on out, there’s no point in jumping us now.”

He half expected silence. Instead there was a muffled sob and a young boy in tattered rags limped into view. The boy came from the side of the house, and now Cullen could see how well the shrubbery had camouflaged the boy.

The Viscountess’s sword dipped low, the tip hitting the cobblestones with a click. “Maker’s Breath, child! What are you doing there?” The boy, blond hair in disarray, eyed their weapons cautiously. Then he noticed Cullen’s armor, the Templar’s crest on his chest, and the boy recoiled.

“No, messere was supposed t’ be alone so I could talk wif’ you,” he sniffled, and backed away, fear in his eyes. A soft blue light came from the child’s hands and Cullen’s instincts screamed at him. The boy was a mage!

“Stay back!” Cullen’s voice resonated as he banished the gathering energies around the child’s hands. The boy’s eyes widened further and Cullen could see he was about to bolt. He tensed in anticipation of the boy’s flight when Sorcha flung her hand into Cullen’s path and said, “No, wait! Stop.”

Carefully, Sorcha placed her sword on the ground, her hand still held out toward Cullen. “We are not going to hurt him. Do you hear me?”

He gripped his sword tight and his voice was grim as he said, “He is an apostate and you would be wise not to get in the way of Templar business, your Grace.” Duty called.

Her eyes narrowed, her stare hardened to emeralds and her voice full of steel. “He is a child who is asking for my help.” She turned back to the child in question who cowered in the bushes. Her voice gentled and she took a step towards him. “I’ll not hurt you, child. No harm will come to you.” She held out her hands to the boy who took a brief moment to look away from Cullen to Sorcha.  
Something in the Champion’s face made the boy pause; then a sob ripped from his throat and he rushed toward the woman. Cullen almost bull rushed her to the cobbles but he saw Hawke’s back tense and her intake of breath. She was grounding herself, like he had shown her. But the child only threw his arms, not magic, around Sorcha’s waist and wept into her dress. 

Sorcha’s gentle hands stroked through the boy’s hair, calming him with soft sounds of comfort. “Now now, child, what’s your name?”

Cullen couldn’t hear the boy’s muffled response. He sheathed his sword and looked around for anyone else that could be hiding in the bushes. The night was empty save for the three of them. Satisfied the child wasn’t a distraction to catch the two off guard, he approached them.

The little one saw him and he must have tensed because Sorcha said, “Shush now, Feren. He’s not going to hurt you. I won’t let him.” She said as she looked up at Cullen. The dare was back in her eyes, but he was sure she knew enough of him to know he would not harm a child.

“I will not harm the boy. But he must come with me, your Grace.” There was a subtle note to his voice. In years past, the Champion had harbored apostates. Her sister was one before becoming a Grey Warden. No one would ever forget the abomination she should have turned in. Cullen would not shirk his duty tonight, not even for the Champion of Kirkwall. 

“We’ll go with you to the Circle, Knight Captain.” She looked down at the child, rubbed the tears from the boy’s cheeks then tilted his chin up with gentle fingers. “You do know you have to go there, right Feren? It’s where all the mages go. For now, at least.”

Feren swallowed and nodded. “Mum said I had to come to you, that you’d help me. She couldn’t help no more. She said you’d understand.” The child gulped back more tears and Sorcha nodded with encouragement. The Champion’s sympathies were well known amongst the apostates of the area, though she followed Chantry law at present. It made sense a desperate mother would send their child to the mercy of the Viscountess.

Taking the boy’s hand in hers, Sorcha glanced at her door and shook her head, then looked back to Cullen. “Lead on to the Circle, Serah. It’s been a long night, and Feren looks hungry.”

He wanted to protest. This was Templar business after all. But the child was terrified of Cullen and comforted by Sorcha’s presence. It would be easier with the boy’s cooperation. “Very well, your Grace.”

The wind picked up, bringing with it the smell of the sea and Cullen glanced skyward. Clouds started to cover the moon’s face and by the looks of it, a storm was rolling in. He glanced at Sorcha, who recognized the change in weather as well and they shared a knowing look. Without another word he led them away from Hawke’s estate to a Templar patrol in Hightown to collect an escort to the Gallows.


	3. Storm

It was late by the time he got back to his room in the Templar wing of the Gallows complex. With the only sources of light being the one lit candle on his desk and coals that glowed amber in the fireplace. The room granted a Knight Captain hadn't been palatial by a long shot, but as his promotion to Commander had been rushed, he hadn't had a chance to move into the Commander's suite. A small stone basin to bathe in sat next to the fireplace. With enough space to bunk up to ten people in an emergency and a scenic view of the ocean, he rather liked his quarters. Rain pattered against the window, with the distant rumble of thunder as an undertone. A sea squall had rolled into Kirkwall, which was fine with him: the weather fit the storm of his mood. 

With a sigh he dropped his gauntlets onto a chair and unclasped his chest plate. He stripped out of his armor piece by piece and hung it up on the armor stand. As he sat on the edge of his bed and tugged off his boots, he mulled over the events of the past few hours.

It had taken longer than he hoped to get Feren settled. The child would not go anywhere without Sorcha and by the time they had met up with acting First Enchanter Inora, Cullen’s patience had worn thin. Serah Karen had come across them and Sorcha’s ease with the newly knighted Templar transferred to the boy. Soon after the boy left with the First Enchanter where he would get a hot meal and settle in for the night.

Stripped of his Templar plate, he peeled his gambeson off over his shoulders and tossed it onto the chair in front of his desk. The candle flame flickered at the rush of air and illuminated missives he had yet to read, as well as the vial containing his nightly dose of lyrium. With sunrise only a few hours away, the tension from the past few hours had him looking forward to the relaxation the lyrium brought him. A stray rush of air from the poorly insulated windows cooled the sweat on his bared chest and shoulders. 

He looked out the window to watch the ocean waves dip and swell in the storm. After all the months since Meredith’s death, he still wasn’t used to the view. Shortly after the Knight Commander’s death, Revered Mother Eleline had unofficially appointed him Commander of the Templars in Kirkwall. Since orders from the chapter in Val Royeaux had never surfaced, he kept his Knight Captain commission. The Order in Kirkwall had no objections to Cullen’s leadership. There were a small number of hold outs; men and women who thought Meredith’s way was the best way or that they should wait for orders from the Divine. They made the transition difficult but not impossible.

He heard knock at his door and sighed. Duty called even at this hour. “Enter.” It was probably Sendrick, the Tranquil tasked to make the Viscountess comfortable down in the guest quarters. With the storm and the time of night Sorcha had refused to risk the lives of an escort back to her estate, stating she’d bunk down in the Templar barracks if she had to.

The hinges on his door creaked as it opened and closed, but when his visitor said nothing he turned around. “Are our guests sett-“ But Sendrick wasn’t standing at his door. Sorcha stood with her back against the door in nothing but an oversized linen shirt, probably one of the recruits. It was belted with a sash at her waist and reached about mid-thigh, but it left her long legs bare. Sweat started to bead on his skin.  
The soft candle light flickered in her eyes and he noticed her watching him. The look in her eyes was haunted and she opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out. 

He moved forward a step and blurted, “My lady-“ but then she held up a hand to forestall his words and started to pace in the open space between his desk and the fire place. 

“I need to know Feren’s going to be all right. That poor child was terrified.” Light glinted off hair brushed over her shoulders as she paced. She rubbed at her right shoulder while she spoke. “It can’t stay like this. This is safe place for him. Maker’s breath, you should have heard the things he said! It’s as if he were expecting to be killed for just being born.” Her hand dropped from her shoulder and she gestured with her hands. The tension she carried made her look like an overdrawn bow string ready to snap.

It unsettled him to see her worked up over such a simple matter. Always the one to barrel into conflict or settle things fast and dirty, not wring her hands after the fact. He felt at a loss for words. A roll of thunder from the storm outside preceded a gust of air through the room that tickled across his bare back and he flushed crimson. Here he was in trousers and nothing else and there was a woman in his chambers. Maker forgive him.

His silence only brought her focus to him but she seemed oblivious to the source of his discomfort. “Well, say something. Tell me I’m wrong. Maker, tell me I’m right so I can argue but don’t just stand there.” 

He cleared his throat and took a few steps towards her. “You have nothing to fear for the boy. We’re only here to carry out the Maker’s will. We’re not here to terrorize the mages, my lady.” Just a few feet from her he saw her look to his chest and her eyes widened as she noticed his state of dress.

Color crept up the side of her neck and her eyes darted away. “I’m sorry Cullen, I didn’t mean to just barge in here. Andraste’s ass, I’m an idiot,” she muttered and turned to leave. 

Without thought he closed the distance between them and reached out to touch her arm. “Wait.” Gentle fingers closed around her elbow and she winced. The fabric of her shirt was warm to the touch. His heart hammered in his chest and blood roared in his ears, but he didn’t remove his hand. “You look pained. Is there something wrong?”

She turned to face him but didn’t pull out of his grasp, and compressed her lips, wetting them with a nervous dart of her tongue. His gaze flicked to the mildly suggestive gesture, but he quelled the thought. She rolled her shoulder and pointed out the rain splattered window with her free hand. “It’s the storm. Ever since the Deep Roads the weather’s always made the damn thing ache.” He let go of her elbow and she rubbed at her shoulder once more, mouth grimaced at a fleeting memory. “A good night’s rest and the storm’s passage should fix it right up.”  
Excuse yourself, ask her to leave, beg fatigue just do something! His thoughts railed at him and as he excused himself he said, “Would you like me to help would with that? Soothing aching muscles after a long day’s training is a common enough occurrence here. ”

Something flickered across her gaze, “What are you offering?” Her voice dipped low, and her stare made his face warm and the hair on the back of his neck raise. 

“A shoulder rub, nothing more.” 

She shook her head and said, “Thank you, Serah but I’ll be fine-“ She shrugged again and a small gasp of pain escaped her lips. That settled it for Cullen. 

“Pardon my skepticism, my lady, and with the threat of assassins at any time, a sore sword arm could be the determination between being alive to complain another day or death. So,” and at his gentle push into the chair, she sat down. “Allow me to salve your nerves and mine and let me take a look at that shoulder.” 

He caught the surprised look in her eyes followed by the twinkle of humor before he went around to the back of her chair. He pulled his sweaty gambeson from behind her and laid it on the desk. His hands brushed silk soft hair to the side of her neck, and the cloying aroma of pears returned to fill his nostrils. With gentle but sword calloused hands, he gripped her shoulders. They were cool to the touch, solid as a rock and already he knew the tension he saw on the surface went much, much deeper.

She managed to find her voice again after his little outburst. “Well if you insist…” Tentative pressure on her shoulder and he found the knots, a small cluster of them over her right shoulder blade. It was a curious pattern and gave him a hint of the long ago injury. Broken shoulder or severe dislocation maybe. A soft moan came from her when he dug his fingers into it and he faltered, the sound of her voice going straight to his nethers. He needed to fill the air with less of her moans and more talking. “How exactly did you injure your shoulder?”

Her breath hissed through clenched teeth but she rolled her head, cracking her neck. “A rock wraith in the Deep Roads. Biggest I’ve ever seen. Bloody fool of a mage decided he needed to finish just one more cast and not get behind the sodding pillar, all while a stone the size of a charging marbari was aimed for his fool head. I had to grab the bastard by his ponytail and yank him into cover. I wasn’t fast enough to duck the stone. It dinged off my armor and shattered my shoulder blade.” She grunted at that, and he could envision the grimace on her face at the memory.

While she told her story he let his hands kneed the muscles in her shoulder. At first they were tough and unyielding, but once she told him the origin of the injury, he changed his tactic. She continued, though her voice was quiet. “Anders set the bones and healed me up quick, otherwise we’d have died for sure out there, but – Ohhh, yea. Right there.” He felt a pop and the granite under his hands relaxed into warm flesh. Her head lolled forward and she mumbled. “Andraste’s tits man, how about you just resign your knight’s commission and come work for me. I’ll pay a king’s ransom to keep you doing… whatever it is you’re doing now.” 

His skin was already flushed but something stirred lower as her voice dropped. Unsure what to do he tried to hide behind humor and chuckled. “Your offer is generous, my lady, but one cannot simple drop a calling.” Her shoulders shook under his hands as she harrumphed but she went silent as he continued his ministrations. Minutes passed, the only sounds those of the storm: rain drops panged against the window, thunder rumbled and the distant rush of waves hitting the castle walls. It would have been relaxing if not for his heart threatening to leap from his chest. She leaned her head back, eyes closed, into his belly and he prayed to the Maker that she not feel what her touch did to him. The feel of her hair on his skin sent shivers through him and he looked down at her upturned face.  
Green eyes opened, met his gaze and his breath caught. A flash of lightning followed by the crack of thunder broke the moment as they both jerked and she jumped up from the chair, pulling him forward as his hand was still on her shoulder. The window rattled in protest to the weather and he gave a soft squeeze to calm her nerves. 

“Maker’s breath. “ Her laugh sounded nervous. She turned so he let his hand slide from her shoulder to trace down her arm. It brought her face to face with him and they both froze. This close the clean scent of pears hit him square in the face. She had a dusting of light freckles on her nose and chin that stood out on her flushed face. Her eyes were dark pools in the low light and she bit her bottom lip while he stared into her face. 

Maker forgive me, he thought as his fingers curled into her shirt and he tugged, dragging her to him. He had to know what those lips felt like. She gasped against his mouth. Her lips were soft, though there was tension from her surprise. Then he felt warm, calloused fingers slide up his side and her mouth responded to him. He brought both hands up to cup her face while his mind screamed at him that this was wrong. With a gasp he pulled himself back, his senses reeling. 

Cullen dropped his hands and stammered an apology even though his body protested. This is a bad idea, he thought. They had to work together, not complicate matters. He felt resistance as he tried to pull away. She had trapped his trunk with her arms. Sorcha’s eyes were lidded as she growled low in her throat. “Oh no you don’t.” Then she surged upward to take his lips with her mouth. 

A sharp inhale of breath and her felt her tongue on his lips, questing for entry. The sweet taste of her tongue lit his nerves aflame, and he brought his hands up to tangle fingers into her unbound hair. Her warm body pressed into his, forcing him to back into the desk. He jostled the desk and its contents scattered to the floor, but he didn’t care. Outside the storm raged on; a larger reflection to the chaos inside his room. 

He let one hand drop from her hair to run down her back, pulling down on her shirt at the collar to expose her neck. His mouth trailed the edge of her jaw and throat, down to where her neck and shoulder joined. He felt her moan, a tingle to his lips and he nipped her there. Her pulse fluttered under his teeth and her hands tugged at the hem of his trousers, her fingers scraping against the sensitive flesh of his hips, sealing their fate.  
In one swift motion he lifted her off her feet as she wrapped her long legs around his hips. He tested his balance and crossed the room to his bed in three concise steps. Meanwhile she brought both her hands up to his shoulders and kissed the side of his face and neck, running a tongue down the shell of his ear. He almost missed a step when she hummed softly in his ear instead only cracking his knee on the side of the bed. 

Never in his wildest dreams had he thought this would be happening. Never mind that the Order did not condone such carnal demands of human nature. This was Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall. The restrained strength in her grip on his shoulders made his blood hot and rational thought abandoned him. She uncurled her legs from his waist to kneel on the bed in front of him. Her mouth recaptured his and their kiss was slow, deep and sweet. 

She pulled away, her hands lowered from him to untie the sash at her waist, letting the fabric drop and the shirt fall loose around her. He reached out and ran rough fingertips over the curve of her thighs under the shirt, then slid his hands up to remove the undershirt from her. Once off he took in the full view of her in a pair of smalls.  
He had seen a naked woman before. There were women Templars, and communal baths. But this was different. The light color on her skin flushed with desire. Specifically, desire for him. Lightning flickered outside and reflected off the sheen of sweat on the curve of her breast. His eyes scanned the scattered slices and scars that adorned her toned core. Most prominent was the puckered foot long scare that started at her sternum and ended just below her clavicle. If the stories were to be believed, this was the Arishok’s parting gift to her before she slayed him in a duel for Kirkwall, earning her the name Champion. He ran a gentle finger over it and watched her shuddered; a small guttural sound emerged from her lips and her nipples hardening to little points. 

His eyes flicked to her face and she licked her lips, looking nervous. Then she reached out her hand, grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him down towards her. He resisted for a moment, testing her even now, but she shifted her weight and brought him off balance. He followed her onto the mattress, holding himself up with his arms, her thighs clenching at his sides. His heart thundered in his ears, but she only smiled at him, then arched her back and rubbed her groin against his. He gasped in pleasure as the pressure on his erection lanced sparks through him. 

Never had he been so intimate with another person. The lack of control of what was touched when was intoxicating. He brought one hand up to her face to cup her cheek in his hand. She hummed in pleasure, running fingertips over his chest, down his stomach and dancing them at the hem of his trousers again, pulling at the ties. It came undone and his heart hammered harder as he looked into her eyes. There was hunger in her gaze, one he was sure he mirrored and she turned her face to kiss his palm. There was a flash of pink and he felt her tongue trail up his palm, making his breaths ragged.  
She wiggled his trousers down past his hips and then her hands hesitated. Free of clothing that he was, the night air hit him and he watched her tongue dart out to wet her lips again. It was maddening nervous gesture of hers and he kissed her tongue. Then the feather touch of her fingers ghosted across his shaft and he moaned into her mouth. It seemed to embolden her further and he felt her warm hand wrap around him and squeeze. A bit too hard.

He flinched and she dropped her hand, pulling her face from his. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Her voice was thick with lust but there was a slight thread of panic. It gave him pause and he leaned down to kiss her lightly on the lips. 

“It’s alright, I’m fine. Really.” His body tensed as he leaned back and looked into her eyes. “Have-“

“No,” was the curt reply. Her mouth quirked at the corner and suddenly his world tilted as she rolled him across the bed. She was strong and nimble, stopping their momentum with her legs straddling his middle and her arms pinning his above his head. Her breasts brushed over his chest, making the light blond hairs there stand on end. “That’s not going to stop me though.” The hungry look in her eyes forestalled his protest and she kissed him to prove it.

She leaned back, letting his arms go and ground her hips into him again. She still had smalls on and he growled deep in his chest, wanting them off. He ran his hands over her thighs and up under the band, feeling the coarse hairs underneath. She let out a ragged breath and swayed her hips against his fingertips, slicking his fingers in the process. Then she pulled back. It took her a second to lift one leg then the other to wriggle out of them, but then they were off and forgotten and he was free to run questing fingers over her sex, exploring her slick dampness within the curls. She let out a strangled moan at his touch and he sat up. His hands ran over her ribs and abdomen to rest on her supple breasts and his lips raced to hers. 

The heady rush of skin on skin overwhelmed him and she pushed him back to the mattress with a laugh. Clear thought was beyond them but their bodies responded to baser instincts. She rubbed the wet folds of her sex across his shaft and he whimpered. His fingers clenched into the meat of her arms at the sensation and wicked laughter escaped from her lips. He felt a hot, damp softness on his chest and looked down to see her bent over his chest, tonguing his nipple. Her lips crawled up his chest, to the cleft of his neck and chin and finally to his mouth. Her breathes were irregular and she slid herself over him again, this time parting her nethers and maneuvering him to her opening. 

It took a few false starts but eventually his tip slipped inside her and she gasped. He jerked at the feeling of her tightness; primal urge overwhelmed him and he thrust into her. She cried out in pain, fingers clawing into his shoulders and her blunted nails drew blood. It stopped him cold. “Are you alright?”

She panted and swallowed, then nodded once. Her mouth crooked with a feral grin. “I’m fine. Have you ever-“

“Maker no,” he moaned and slid back from her in shame, but she clamped down her thighs to stop him.  
“Well there’s a first time for everything,” she said against his lips and she lowered herself further, inching him all the way inside until he could go no further. Her hot breath hissed into his mouth and he nipped at her lips as she withdrew slightly and came down again, thighs flexing in time with his tentative thrusts. 

It was too much for him. With her body pressed to his she rode him while the pressure grew. Heat and sweat, pleasure from her walls enveloping him and the slight pain where she’d drawn blood on his shoulders, all coalesced and he thrust hard into her in release. He wrapped both arms around her middle, savoring the sensation of her grinding her hips into him to reach her own climax. He wasn’t sure if she reached it or not, too lost in his own bliss. 

Then she shuddered once and her walls constricted on him, causing him to inhale sharply. She cried out again and collapsed against his chest, and they laid there, panting, their staggered breaths and the wild storm the only sounds he could hear.

Moments or centuries passed, he wasn’t sure which, and she lifted up as his softening member slipped from her. He pulled her to his side, nestling her head on his shoulder, his other arm wrapped around her side. She sighed and let him hold her, and they shared the silence, unsure of what to say or do next. It wasn’t long before the rhythmic lull of the rain had them both dozing off into slumber.

***  
Cullen woke with a start, muscles aching and his side cold. He was naked. He never went to bed naked. In a panic he looked around the room, sure that it had all been a dream. The predawn light filtered through the window. No discarded shirts or smalls. 

A dream then? His head throbbed slightly, meaning he had forgotten his lyrium dose for the night. He must have been exhausted to forget and just sleep. 

Then he noticed the letters that were supposed to be on his desk were scattered on the floor. Little slices in his shoulders stung. A sinking feeling began in his stomach and he turned to his pillow, plunging his nose into it. There was the hint of pear. His eyes finally landed on a small dark spot on his bed sheets and he mouth went dry as he leaned over to inspect it. 

It was dry, but it wasn’t the stain of sweat; just a small trickle of blood.


End file.
